Chapter 4 - The Flight to Nowhere
Dawn broke over New York City, but the rain only grew heavier, turning the grey skyline into a blurry watercolor.
On the private tarmac of Teterboro Airport, a sleek Gulfstream G650 jet idled, its turbines whining against the gale-force winds. Armed guards stood shoulder-to-shoulder around the boarding ramp, their submachine guns hidden beneath heavy raincoats.
Celia sat in the plush leather cabin of the private jet, staring blankly out the window as the runway lights blurred in the rain. Across from her sat Leo, still pale and weak from the paralytic toxin, wrapped in a cashmere blanket. Dr. Sterling monitored his vitals quietly in the back row.
The cabin door hissed open, and Vincent stepped inside, bringing a gust of cold air and the scent of damp wool and ozone. He shrugged off his wet coat, revealing a charcoal vest and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
“Where are we going?” Celia asked, her voice tight with exhaustion. She hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours.
“Chicago,” Vincent said simply, dropping a thick manila folder onto the mahogany table between them.
Celia flinched. “Chicago? Are you insane? Salvatore’s people are everywhere there! You just massacred half their advance squad!”
“Which is precisely why they won't expect us there,” Vincent replied, taking a seat opposite her and pouring two cups of black coffee from a silver thermos. He pushed one toward her. “Drink it. You need the caffeine. We have a twelve-hour war council ahead of us.”
“I’m not going to a war council, Mr. Romano! I want to go back to Astoria! I want to check on my mother! I want my normal, boring, miserable life back!” Celia’s voice cracked, a tear finally escaping down her cheek despite her best efforts to hold it back.
Vincent paused, the ceramic cup halfway to his lips. He looked at her—really looked at her—not as a variable in an equation, not as a witness, but as a human being who had been dragged into a nightmare through no fault of her own.
“Your mother was transferred three hours ago,” Vincent said quietly.
Celia froze. Her heart stopped. “What... what did you do to her?”
“She’s currently in a private suite at Chicago’s Northwestern Memorial Hospital,” Vincent said evenly. “Under the care of the top neuro-oncologist in the country. Her treatment is fully paid for, her room is guarded by four of my most trusted men, and she is safer there than she has ever been in her life.”
“You... you kidnapped my mother?!” Celia gasped, lunging across the table, her hands balling into fists.
“I saved her,” Vincent corrected, his voice dropping into a stern, unyielding register. “Simon’s network in New York is dismantled, but his financial backers—the old guard who wanted me out of the syndicate—know about you. If you had gone back to Astoria, you would have been dead before sunset. I didn't take her hostage, Celia. I put her in a fortress.”
Leo stirred under his blanket, reaching out a pale, trembling hand to tug on Celia’s sleeve.
“Please don’t be mad at Papa,” the boy whispered, his dark eyes wide and pleading. “He only protects the people he cares about. And he cares about you. He told Tommy you’re family now.”
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Celia looked from the sick little boy to the cold, dangerous mafia boss sitting across from her. She realized, with a chilling sense of finality, that her old life—the diner, the tips, the late-night C trains—was gone forever. The moment she picked up that phone in the alley on West 46th Street, the ink on her fate had dried.
“Fine,” Celia whispered, sinking back into her seat and picking up the coffee cup. “If we’re going to Chicago... let’s burn their house down.”
